’None the less a glutton and a murderer and
a coward, who did well to give his throat to the butcher
as he ran away from his enemies. Children he
had, I think—­but—­’

Basil broke off on a wandering thought. He stood
still, knitted his brows, and sniffed the air.
At this moment there appeared in the alley a serving
man, a young and active fellow of very honest visage,
who stood at some yards’ distance until Basil
observed him.

‘What is it, Felix?’ inquired his master.

The attendant stepped forward, and made known that
the lord Marcian had even now ridden up to the villa,
with two followers, and desired to wait upon Basil.
This news brought a joyful light to the eyes of the
young noble; he hastened to welcome his friend, the
dearest he had. Marcian, a year or two his elder,
was less favoured by nature in face and form:
tall and vigorous enough of carriage, he showed more
bone and sinew than flesh; and his face might have
been that of a man worn by much fasting, so deep sunk
were the eyes, so jutting the cheek-bones, and so
sharp the chin; its cast, too, was that of a fixed
and native melancholy. But when he smiled, these
features became much more pleasing, and revealed a
kindliness of temper such as might win the love of
one who knew him well. His dress was plain, and
the dust of Campanian roads lay somewhat thick upon
him.

‘By Bacchus!’ cried his friend, as they
embraced each other, ’fortune is good to me
to-day. Could I have had but one wish granted,
it would have been to see Marcian. I thought you
still in Rome. What makes you travel? Not
in these days solely to visit a friend, I warrant.
By Peter and Paul and as many more saints as you can
remember, I am glad to hold your hand! What news
do you bring?’

‘Little enough,’ answered Marcian, with
a shrug of the shoulders. The natural tune of
his voice harmonised with his visage, and he spoke
as one who feels a scornful impatience with the affairs
of men. ‘At Rome, they wrangle about goats’
wool, as is their wont. Anything else? Why,
yes; the freedman Chrysanthus glories in an ex-consulate.
It cost him the trifle of thirty pounds of gold.’

Basil laughed contemptuously, half angrily.

‘We must look to our honours,’ he exclaimed.
’If Chrysanthus be ex-consul, can you and I
be satisfied with less than ex-Praetorian-Prefect?
What will be the price, think you? Has Bessas
hung out a tariff yet in the Forum?’